Learning Things the Hard Way
by DrinkTeaMDear
Summary: Child!America learns what death is abruptly and painfully, and, when older, experiences it himself. Warnings: Gore, Temporary character death, War
1. Learning Things the Hard Way

**Learning Things the Hard Way**

Warning: involves (temporary) character death and some gore.

Was written as a fill for hetalia kink meme on LJ

Fail!Story is fail. I would make excuses, but I don't want to take up too much room.

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><p><em>The first and only time America had come across the concept of 'death' was a number of years after his arrival in England. An old mare America had been particularly fond of had broken a leg. America crooned and petted the horse's nose as England and some other men discussed quietly amongst themselves. Upon reaching a decision, England had ushered America back into the main house. She was going to be 'put down', whatever that meant. America never saw that horse again.<em>

-...-

America stares down in shock at the prone man lying at his feet. Blood, he recognises that, is pooling around the man's head, spreading along the floorboards, slipping into groves and creeping outward.

"England?"

The boy allows the pistol to fall to the floor before he kneels beside the older nation.

"Hey, England, get up." America demands.

England's eyes are open but that doesn't stop America from shaking the man's shoulder, as England had done many times to rouse him in the mornings.

"This isn't funny." The boy frowns and waves his hand in front of England's eyes but receives no response.

"E-England?" America hears the shakiness in his own voice. What has he done? England isn't responding with his usual bored eyes and dry tone. Is he in trouble? Really, he knows he shouldn't go poking around in England's stuff, but it had been so pretty, and he heard dramatic stories of men in his homeland fighting off fiends with it.

-...-

"_England, England! Look what I found!" America, all knobbly knees and grinning teeth, ran into the room, eager to show his guardian his latest discovery._

"_I didn't know you had one of these!"_

_England hummed in agreement, continuing to read a pamphlet depicting a stodgy old man's opinions of the current political climate._

"_You're not paying attention!"_

_England merely hummed again and it wasn't until he heard the distinctive sound of a gun cocking that America had his full attention._

_The older nation spluttered and quickly rose from his seat. He was all too aware of the gun powder sitting in the pan of the pistol and the bullet he had pushed in; one needed protection these days. But he had placed it high out of America's reach. How had the child managed to find it?_

"_Alfred, you need to put that gun down." _

"_What? But Englandddd" America pouted._

_England began to slowly advance, arms forward imploringly, "Alfred, that gun is-" _

"_Bang bang bang!" The boy started waving the gun around, shooting imaginary foes and nearly sending England into cardiac arrest._

"_America," England said sternly, "give me the gun." _

_He made a move for the boy, but America jumped out of reach, grinning toothily and continued to fight mock enemies._

"_Don't pull the-!"_

Bang_._

-...-

"England? England! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" America starts pushing England's shoulders as hard as he can, "I promise I won't touch your stuff! Please please please!"

England is heavy and unresponsive and America's efforts serve only to roll the man's head to the side. The boy stiffens at the sight and scrambles backwards, not registering the warm, wet feeling of blood on his knees.

The left side of England's head is a mess of pink and grey and red, tangled and splattered and dripping and in little little pieces on the ground.

Suddenly, everything else drops from his mind, and America is acutely aware of the sound of his own harsh breathing. That's not _right._

"E-eee-" His hands twitch and grasp reflexively, and he can feel his stomach twist and churn.

"England, England. Arthur." America's breathing is quick and shallow as he rises to his knees and crawls around England, to his face, dutifully avoiding looking at _that_.

America touches England's cheek tentatively.

"England, wake up. P-please. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry!"

What had he done? What should he do? That mess, that blood. Blood is bad. Bleeding is bad. England is bleeding, a lot. And England's eyes are open, but he does not respond to anything. The bullet must have done that. H-he had done that. He had done this to England. He had-

Renewed panic washes over America and the little boy is suddenly crying and screaming and shaking the man as the older nation's head lolls and jerks with the younger's movements.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, wake up, get up, I'm sorry!" He repeats himself until the words are unintelligible and his voice hoarse.

America quickly tires and collapses on top of his guardian bonelessly, "I'm sorry" he whispers again as he buries his face in England's chest and hugs the man firmly, desperately hoping for some kind of reaction. A raised eyebrow, a tight smile, that constipated look England sometimes had when he was trying to hide his pride in America. Anything.

"Why won't you wake up?"

America does not know how long he lies there for, but is roused from his daze as his head is violently tossed about as England coughs wetly. _Coughs_.

America sits up quickly and turns to face his guardian. The man's eyes are still open, the younger nation notes, but they're moving now, staring at the ceiling, then to America, narrowing in thought, and then his head turns, taking in the red of the blood and, slightly further away, the pistol on the floor.

He turns to face America again, memories returning and realisation dawning. America holds his breath, is he properly awake now?

"E-England?"

"America? What in the blazes-!"

He is cut off by a bout of coughing caused by the sudden weight of a small boy throwing himself on his torso.

"You're awake! You're awake!" America cries, embracing the nation, "You weren't saying anything, and you didn't move, and you weren't breathing and and and, and I was so _scared_."

England blinks for a moment, absorbing the boy's words and feeling a warm wetness seep through his shirt as America sobs into his chest. Slowly, because he always feels stiff after these unfortunate sorts of affairs, England brings his hand up to lie comfortingly on the boy's back.

"I'm here, lad. I'm fine."

America sniffles and nods.

"But, I _do_ hope this teaches you to _listen_ to me when I tell you not to touch something."

"Uh huh." The boy mumbles wetly into to England's shirt.

England lets them lie for a while before he gently pushes his charge off his chest. He attempts to sit up slowly and catches himself twice before he can manage it successfully. His head is throbbing and he carefully raises a hand to tentatively prod the tender flesh on the side of his skull. Despite his care, he still flinches at the touch and withdraws his arm. England judges it will be completely healed by the next day and finally refocuses his attention to America who has been standing nervously at his side and peering intensely at England's head. For the first time, England notes the blood on the boy's clothes and draws his lips to a thin line.

Using the table to steady himself, England rises to his feet shakily.

"Are you going to be okay now?" America shuffles nervously.

"Yes, yes. I will be stiff for a number of days, but am otherwise healed."

England glances at the clock and concludes he has been out for almost an hour. There is an awkward silence as America stares at his shoes and fidgets while England watches him, debating if he should punish the child. America is visibly distressed and it was likely he had been so since this fiasco had begun. Perhaps that was punishment enough. However he would, England resolves, need to talk to America about what exactly death entailed.

"For now, I think it best if we both have a nap, after we change, of course." England is distinctly aware of the stiffness of his hair and the stickiness on the back of his neck that pulls every time he moves his head.

England takes a few tentative steps but quickly restores his gait. He nods to himself and makes for the stairs, but is stopped by a tug on his leggings. He looks down to see America clasping at his clothes tentatively.

"I'm sorry." the boy whispers.

England smiles fondly and ruffles America's hair, "I know."

He reaches down to clasp the younger nation's hand in his own, and leads the way upstairs.

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><p>AN: I'm sorry; I appear to be historically challenged; I can't write period pieces and don't know enough about the 1500-1600's. So I just had them talk like they would in the modern day, even though I did try and do research (like with the Flintlock gun, even though it was more popular in America in the time period I was aiming for), and I had no idea if what England would be wearing would be called a shirt or a tunic. Bleh. I beg for forgiveness.<p> 


	2. What Goes Around

**What Goes Around**

Alfred's gun drops to the ground as he clutches at his stomach, in surprise more than pain. Blood seeps between his fingers and dribbles over them.

"Down! Get down!"

A hand tugs at his shoulder sharply and he falls back into the mud. The pain hits him like a vicious punch to the gut, but deeper, more painful, and sharper. Actually not really like a punch at all, Alfred resolves.

He becomes aware of voices around him and there are hands on his wound, but they're not his anymore. When did his hands fall away? Were they pulled away? Who pulled them away? They shouldn't have pulled them away; he needed to stop the blood. And there was a lot of that now. He could have stopped that. He was America. He could do anything. He was fighting England, after all, wasn't he?

In an attempt to reassert his authority and stem the blood flow, Alfred discovers his own hands are no longer under his complete control. Suddenly they are so weak. Why won't they do what he wants them to do? He waves them weakly at the other hands scrabbling around the bloody hole in his stomach, binding it in white that quickly stains red with blood.

Blood. Blood wasn't good, was it? Unbidden, the familiar phrase brings back the image of a prone England with a gaping cavity in the side of his head and the talk the day after; "Death is something I hope you will never have to face, however, directly or vicariously, you will, so it is best if I warn you."

'Death hurts' had been a big part of it, and little Alfred had sobbed but now, big Alfred laughs. He chuckles wetly and blood bubbles up over his lips as the voices in his ears become more frenzied.

He is then aware of the ground moving beneath him and it occurs to him that that's a little odd. Ground does not move. But there are arms under his shoulders. Pulling him. Oh. That makes sense. As he is pulled smoothly through the mud he leaves a trail of blood at his feet. Alfred giggles. A trail of red that leads right to him, that's not very discrete, is it? 'Not sensible', as England would say. A different England from the one clad in red, gun in hand as he stands in the mud, staring at him as fury and heartbreak clash in his eyes.

Alfred stops giggling; actually it's not funny at all.

He blinks sluggishly, realising distractedly that it is getting darker. But then he corrects himself; it's just his vision clouding. Well there is a lot of blood in the mud. Is it all his? It might be. It might be one of his countrymen's; it might be from one of England's men. It all looks the same, really.

There are people rushing around him, but Alfred can no longer make them out; he is losing much of his vision to the blackness. He allows himself to drift; it is clear he is dying, as much as someone like him can die. He is immediately grateful the bullet that ripped through his stomach was not England's, although he must admit, that would have been poetic.

And as the blackness becomes complete and the hubbub of voices becomes a dull, monotonous roar in his ears, Alfred is hit by an intense wave of despair and longing for warm green eyes and the protective embrace of a loving parent, before his raspy breaths cease for an entire hour.

So when Alfred next faces Arthur on the battlefield, he is older and he is wiser, and he vows it will the last time he pains the one who had done nothing but cared for him.

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> Written on a whim (I have almost no knowledge on USA's war history), largely so that I could answer an anonymous review, Anonyo: I imagined that their bodies would repair and rebuild themselves, so all that mess on the floor would still be there and England's body would have regrown the bits that had been lost.

And thanks to all that reviewed, they still make me smile :)


	3. Theirs Not to Reason Why

**Theirs Not to Reason Why**

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><p>America is so silent in the tent that New Zealand almost misses him. Unusual, given the typically overly boisterous nature of the older nation. His arms are crossed over his chest and his brows furrowed as his gaze sweeps over the rows of beds. His eyes stop on them and he nods once in acknowledgement. Obviously not finding what he is looking for, America turns and ducks under the tent flap.<p>

Beside him, New Zealand feels Australia tense. "What the fuck was that?".

New Zealand turns tired eyes to his fellow Commonwealth nation and shrugs one careless shoulder.

"He just comes in here like that, doesn't like what he sees, and swaggers away?"

New Zealand doesn't know how Australia still has the energy to be angry, although it is easy to see that it is largely impotent and misdirected. He licks chapped lips absently and decides that at least if Australia's talking, he can pretend the man in the next bed over isn't moaning in pain and bleeding all over himself from a bloody stump cut halfway up his leg. All New Zealand knows of him is that he's from home; the little blue flag with red stars tell him that.

"Just 'cause we don't really die doesn't mean he should be so bloody flippant about it."

New Zealand follows Australia's line of sight across the hospital tent to where a sheet is being drawn over a soldier, a man, a body, a corpse.

"England's just the same. How many people have they lost? More than us, for sure."

He eyes the bandage wrapped around Australia's torso and doesn't comment on how all the red that had flushed his cheeks seems to be leeching from his face and into the creeping stain spreading across the bandage on his chest.

"England should at least fucking be here." Australia's voice breaks slightly in pain, but he remains stoic, venting half-formed frustrations.

New Zealand continues surveying the tent. He knows Australia's angry at England and perhaps America too, sure. Angry yelling matches in muddy tents far from the fire of the front line attest to that. But not about this. Not about their apparent indifference to death. And they both know it.

"I think-" New Zealand's voice cracks from disuse; Australia's the talker, New Zealand's not, not usually, not lately. He sees Australia cast a raised eyebrow at him in his peripheral vision.

"I think," he tries again, "that they've both seen enough to merit some kind of detachment from all this. We don't know the half of it, I imagine."

Australia just grunts and sinks further into the thin mattress, looking paler and paler. New Zealand crosses his legs and settles in, watching over the tent as, out of the corner of his eye, Australia's eyes slip closed and his breaths cease. Watches as a few minutes later, as another man's eyes close and refuse to open, even when the man in the bed next to him calls his name over the cacophony of groans and moans and cries of pain.

At least Australia will wake, even as one, ten, twenty, hundreds, of his people won't.

New Zealand sits. Some time later; he cannot say for sure how long, but Australia remains unbreathing, America re-enters the tent. This time, when his gaze lands on them, he makes his way over, cutting straight lines through rows of beds. He pulls over a chair from beside a bed, now empty but for the blood stains.

They sit in companionable silence, looking over the dying men, equally helpless. For once, it is New Zealand who talks first.

"First time either one of us has died, you know." He says it as fact, because it shouldn't need to be a question.

America leans forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees, chair rocking on its uneven legs as his weight shifts. New Zealand notes the tension in America's frame as he surveys Australia.

"I know."

Their silence returns as New Zealand watches America lose himself to his thoughts.

"Was it like this for you? The first time?"

It is an immensely private question, asked like New Zealand knew exactly where America's thoughts had headed, and America is snapped out of his own head to eye New Zealand suspiciously. He answers, because he wants to do what England did for him, to prepare this young nation as much as he can.

"Almost exactly."

He waits for New Zealand to seek clarification, to ask for more, but the nation watches a man, _a corpse to be,_ scream in a fit of remembered agony and merely hums flatly before lapsing into another moment of quiet. America allows the despairing noise overwhelm him temporarily, and is grateful when New Zealand breaks the silence.

"Why are you here?" he says with no heat, the jump in topic the only indicator of where his scattered thoughts had wandered, "This isn't where your boys are."

America rubs a rough hand across his mouth.

"First time either of you have died." America returns his words back to him and New Zealand's gaze finally moves to the corpse, because that is what it _is, _what it has _become_, on the bed. Takes in the pale body, the sightless eyes, slack mouth and reddened bandage. Both nations know that behind that wrap of cloth, organs are healing, muscles are stitching and skin is reforming, but also know the ugly rip of metal into flesh, one more intimately than the other.

He reminds himself roughly that that lifeless thing is not the nation he has grown with under England's care and tears his eyes from it.

"Yeah." He breathes.

"England couldn't make it."

New Zealand snorts, it seems England can never make it. "And I suppose you happened to be in the area."

"Of a sort."

"Gallipoli's a fair bit out of your way."

"Yeah."

New Zealand pauses, shifts in his chair with a creak, "Thanks."

Both are quiet as Australia gasps in a rattling breath of air.

America shakes his head, "Don't thank me".

The man in the next bed over keeps bleeding, stops breathing. New Zealand doesn't know his name.

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><p><em><strong>AN:<strong> Title from "The Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Scattered because I wanted that kind of feel to the narrative, brought about from rolling with my mental state at 3am. Also, my writing style may have changed in the 2+ years since I posted the other two chapters.  
><em>


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